Irresistible
by Ginger Anastase
Summary: The light in her eyes as another bubble of laughter pops from her lips is irresistible so he doesn't resist. E/E.
1. Acronym I

**E**ven at night time, when he's quite alone and doesn't have anyone to inspire or impress, he plans all his speeches for the next day. That is sometimes all he thinks he his, speeches and planning but that is only until he is joined by the gamine and he realises that his long night hours at the café are worthwhile because this girl is what he is fighting for. The girl is small and grimy but has pretty features and fathomless eyes that are so old that he felt he should bow at the wisdom they held because his knowledge was inferior.

**N**othing is the same to him when she comes in the middle of the night, when the streets are full of shadows like her, and looks over his shoulder at his elegant handwriting. Of course, the swirls and curls of his lettering are ruined when she swipes up the parchment for reading and leaves dirty fingerprints on the edges but he does not mind. That way, when he is practicing his speeches to learn off by heart he can remember exactly what words are next to the fingerprint of her right thumb and then the words after it. It is a strange ethic of remembering his speeches but it works and he is grateful towards her and her filthy hands.

_**J**__oy unconfined, she has arrived again_ he thinks sardonically another evening when she creeps in through the door, although he is secretly happy that she has come back and is only being sarcastic because he doesn't want to accept that. She scampers into the chair opposite him, pulling her hands inside her coat until she is gripping onto the cuffs of the oversized garment, looking like a child in her father's clothes. She props her head up on those spindly arms, and gazes longingly at his beautiful handwriting. He knows that she cannot write but he does not bring it up because that would upset her pride. They don't talk this time because he can see a fresh bruise on her cheek and red marks on her neck where a man's unwelcome lips used to be; she does not talk on the nights she has sold herself.

**O**bviously he always offers to walk her home when they leave the café but she always declines, smiling at how very courteous he is. She doesn't refuse out of stubbornness but because this man is gentlemanly and is beginning to think something of her, she does not want him to see the hell in which she lives. He accepts that graciously and bids her goodnight; bowing his head because he would do the same to a bourgeoisie so he shall do the same to her. If he had his world then women would not be separated into gamines and bourgeoisies and rich girls but he knows it will be a while before that will ever happen. There was that one night when he offered her his jacket; she had left her coat at her home. It was the red one with the gold buttons that she loves to see him wear because no-one else has a jacket like it so when she sees it in a crowd, she always knows he is there. She would say no but the softness of the fabric on her calloused fingers and the scent of him like pen ink and street smoke suddenly overcomes her and she wraps it around her. It is the first time she has been warm.

**L**ovely eyes fall into his view as he looks out the open window from the corner table of the café on yet another late night. She has stepped in front of him to announce her presence, brash and intruding as ever. He gestures to the seat next to him as she slips the red jacket from her shoulders and gives it back to him. He takes it reluctantly, noting that she has again left her coat at home. He isn't writing, he is reading and this makes her unhappy too because words on a page are as easy to read as the lines on her palm to the gamine. He sees her glum downturned mouth, tempted to take her chin and lift the corner of her lips with his thumb, and begins to read aloud to her. She is taken aback but draws her knees up to her chest and listens intently as his normally ferociously passionate voice is hummed down to a caramel-like murmur that is meant just for her.

**R**ain starts fluttering from outside and onto her hair so he stops reading and stands up to close the window. She is sputtering because she had her mouth open to ask a question and the rain water settled on her teeth, putting them on edge. He can't ignore that the way she wrinkles her nose is particularly… he doesn't know the word but it makes him smile. She notices and laughs. He laughs too because the sound of her laugh is infectious. It would be a strange sight for someone to walk in on; the scene of a dirty gamine and a rich revolutionary halfway through closing a window, both of them chuckling like they wouldn't stop. He sits back down and picks up his book, ready to start reading to her again but she won't stop smiling and he can't take his eyes off her. The light in her eyes as another bubble of laughter pops from her lips is irresistible so he doesn't resist.

**A**nd he leans across the table to kiss her.

**S**omewhere in his head, as cluttered with the words of the book he was reading and as intoxicated with the softness of her small lips on his, he feels the pressure of her kissing him back. It is a welcome pressure and only urges him to part his lips but he already realises that he is too far gone. She is sighing because she has found someone who is kissing her lips sweetly instead of kissing her neck harshly. She does not care that the barricades rise in two days or that they both may die and neither does he. They don't care because, as their hands tangle in each others hair, everything for the moment is right with the world because she has broken into marble and he has been trusted with her heart.


	2. Acronym II

**Thank you so much to PurpleFanMagic, Hollywollypolly, Well . EveryOtherPenNameIsTaken and Sapphire Iota for reviewing the last chapter, it really is appreciated. As you might have noticed by the summary, this has now turned into a oneshot series. You know, a place where I can write the Enjolras/Eponine ideas that I have that don't fit into my stories. Anyway, this is a continuation of Acronym. Have fun!**

**E**very part of her comes alive as he knots his fingers in her hair, even the parts that had vowed to stay with her forever, like the piece of her fiery soul that had been dampened, but not extinguished, by the abuse from her father or blatant indifference from her mother. She won't go as far as to say that those parts of her have gone forever but they have gone for now.

**P**eople call her street scum and a worthless whore but she feels as if it is not true anymore. Even when he pulls away and smiles crookedly at her, the warmness of his lips gone from hers, she still feels like the princess she always dreamed of being because, from the tingle he has left on her mouth, she can tell that he doesn't think she is worthless. He holds out his hand for her to take so they can make their way out of the café. She takes it willingly and stands ungracefully from her seat, expecting a long rich gown to fall around her as she moves but is a little disappointed when she is left with the raggedy and mud-spattered brown dress that has clothed her loyally for many years. The extraordinary feeling of royalty is still in her left hand where his is held. His grip is strong and she knows her hand is safe there.

**O**nly when they leave the comforting glow of the café does she feel disheartened again for she knows that the street she is now in is where she belongs and not where her left hand is held. He bows his head to her, this time not pulling his eyes from her face and turns to leave because he knows she does not like to be walked home. She flounders as he retreats further and further into the dark until she can't help but shout after him. She calls his name, the sound of it from her hoarse vocal cords bouncing against the corners of the open street until it meets his ears, and he turns around. He is frowning because she never calls after him when they leave the café but then again they never normally kiss in the café either. She scampers up to him and links her arm through his, the inside of her elbow heating up a little at the touch, and they walk in the direction of her house. There is a dark figure leaning against the tumble-down-wall of where she lives, tossing a coin in the air.

**N**either of them expects her father to react like this. It is like he has been waiting for her to come home. Enjolras tries to stop him, he really does, but the gamine doesn't let him.

**I**ndeed, the revolutionary does try to help; he is treated to a black eye before her father saunters towards the docks. She hasn't got the energy to argue with him as he slips his red jacket over her shoulders, the throbbing pain in her stomach his too heady and constricting. The smell of him, ink and street smoke, fills her nose and makes the blows she has received softer. The moon has moved higher in the sky before she convinces him that she is okay. He is halfway through another excuse to stay with her until she holds a finger to his lips and departs, slipping into her dishevelled house before he can say anymore. He doesn't want to leave but her ghostly face appears through the grime of the window, ruefully telling him to go. He stands outside her door for an hour, guarding, before he can't be awake anymore and he returns to his house. He clutches his sides because he is cold, because she is not there and his red jacket is with her.

**N**early all of his concentration is set on her as the last of his revolutionary friends leaves the café, clapping him on the shoulder too hard because he is drunk. He is left scribbling on paper some words that don't make much sense. Pride. Equality. High power. They are words that he has written before and, no doubt, words he will right again but they are a little detached. They are not as passionate because she is not here so he doesn't have anyone to inspire or impress. He is sitting by the same window that he was sat by yesterday and he smiles. His happiness is short-lived. The barricades will rise in the morning and he is tired, not in a state to fire a bayonet, so he has to leave and accept that she has not come tonight. She will not come tomorrow.

**E**vening at the barricade arrives and some have been shot. Enjolras stays faithful and hopeful, so do the rest. He tightens the flag around his hips, gazing down at the French colours hatefully as if to say _'they are being sacrificed for you.'_ She has fallen. Even Eponine, the strongest person he has ever known and ever will know, could not survive the second beating she received from her father that night, not long after Enjolras had reluctantly left guarding her house to return to his own. He waits for her arrival at the barricade. He does not know.

**I hope that was a suitably sad ending. Thank you for reading. **


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